In Kind
by AlreadyPainfullyGone
Summary: Posted this on LJ during THE FFNET BLACKOUT SAGA! a period porny oneshot based  very loosely  on the BBC Christopher isherwood drama. Dean is a prostitute, yes, behold the cliche, and Castiel is gay. Set in a time where both these things were forbidden
1. Chapter 1

_I just watched 'Christopher and his Kind' on iplayer...this is only tangentially related porn. _

He picks the boy up at one of the underground places, already crowded with boys by this time of night. Boys in only their undershirts, suspenders casually tight on their shoulders, playing cards and smoking thin cigarettes as they wait for men like him to collect them.

Of course he knows that most of the boys down her aren't queer as he is, they are hetero's in need of the cash, with some pretty girl on the side who they'll take to the picture house or out for drinks with the money he'll hand over for an evening's buggery. The thought sours him slightly, but when he catches sight of the brown haired boy leaning by the wall, narrow paper tube of smoking tobacco clenched between perfect lips, cheekbones drawn as he inhales, he forgets his momentary malaise.

He isn't used to this, back home it was so difficult to know who was interested in what, and discovery was always such a present threat. Still, Castiel was excited by the prospect of getting what he wanted this evening, and he finds it in Dean.

He finds out the boys name only when he approaches, removing his hat delicately and laying his fingers on the boy's bare forearm. He turns and smiles rakishly around the cigarette, eyes flicking over him, maybe assessing his wealth from his clothes and tie pin. He raises his fingers to Castiel's lips.

"Name?" he breathes in a cloud of bluish smoke.

"Castiel." He refuses to lower his gaze, he's come too far to be ashamed of what he's about to pay to do.

"Dean." He replies, and takes his hand.

The boy leads him a way off from the smoke filled room, finding an empty tunnel and pulling him against the damp brick wall.

"Ok Cas...what do you want?" he casts his cigarette into the dark, striking orange sparks from the flags on the floor. When Castiel can't find a response he crowds close to him, breathing in his ear. "You want to be on top of me...or do you want me...in you?" he breathes, and Castiel lets his legs fall open a little, allowing Dean to press between them. The boy notices and smirks happily. "Good. I never get to do this."

He tugs Castiel's pants down, lifting him a little and toying his hole open with blunt fingers, Castiel lets his head fall back against the wall and feels the tension leaving his body as his cock fills between them, lengthening and rucking damply against Dean's shirt. The boy pulls his own slacks open, pushing up into him without preamble and nipping Castiel's neck as he arches with a cry at the suddenness of it.

"Easy...easy..." Dean soothes him and shifts carefully, reaching the point at which his hips meet Castiel's body, fully seated within him. "There you go baby...that wasn't so bad, was it?" As much as he knows it is beneath him, Castiel accepts the soft , sarcastic words against his skin, whimpering his response and clenching tentatively around Dean's cock, full and aching with the burn of entry. The boy hisses, muscles in his arms bunching as he hauls Castiel's body higher, starting to thrust. "Come on then..." he gets out, teeth clenched against the raging tightness he encounters as Castiel squirms and clenches again in earnest, feeling the drag of Dean's plump head against his prostate and forcing his channel to contract, drawing out the sensation.

"Show me how you like this..." Dean grunts, pinning him to the wall with his body weight. "Having me fuck you...here..." Castiel, lost as he is in the feeling of the thick cock sliding into him, pushing him open over and over again, can tell that Dean is losing control, spun out and gasping into his throat. "Fucking...fag..." Dean moves roughly, hands gripping his buttocks and parting them further, pushing harder until Castiel's head flies back against the wall hard, breath coming too harshly, edged with moans as he gives himself over to the feeling of Dean pounding him, hissing obscenities into his ear, fingers bruising his otherwise soft white skin, ingraining him with dirt and the scent of smoke and sweat.

"You love this...don't you?" A particularly jostling thrust knocks his eyes wide open and Castiel looks into Dean's face, sweat slicked and clenched with the effort of holding back. "You're not even a fucking man...you fucking..." his head bows forward, mouth catching the sweat on Castiel's neck with a desperate sound. "Uh...God..." his hips ride forwards and Castiel moves his hands from his shoulder to Dean's face, feeling him flinch at the gentle touch.

"You want this...don't you?" He manages to gasp out, soft and wondering, because he had expected a straight whore to hate him for what he is, what he wants, but he hadn't thought what it must be like for a boy to lay himself down for clients when he himself fancies cock and is unable to afford a boy of his own. Freedom is something neither of them have, and a love affair is harder to cover for than a business liaison.

Dean shakes his head in the hollow of Castiel's throat, growling shortly, but his shoulders shake and Castiel wraps his arms around them tentatively, feeling the brutal push of fleshy hardness inside of him falter.

"You can have it...whatever you want." Castiel groans, stretched and half out of his mind with the need to come and the knowledge that Dean actually wants to fuck him. "Uh...whatever you want...just finish me...fuck...please..."

Dean moans, mouth catching his suddenly, tongue forcing its way in and sweeping his mouth with the taste of penny cigarettes. He thrusts hard, letting himself go and hammering upwards, hands keeping him braced against the wall and Castiel's legs around his waist. He takes what he wants, the tightness of the willing hole stretched around him, and spends with a laboured groan, fetching up hard, his last frantic bucks grinding inwards with his cock already truly imbedded to the hilt. Castiel shivers out a gasp at the pressure, pulsing another smear of pre-come against Dean's shirt as the boy slumps against him.

"Please..." Castiel whimpers as he feels Dean drag out of him, wet and thickly covered in his own come. Dean lowers him to the floor hesitantly and Castiel feels his heart thud heavily, because Dean is going to leave him here, hard and aching. But then the boy drops to his knees and wraps his mouth around his neglected cock, sucking down a mouthful of pre-come and saliva with a hungry moan. Castiel feels his knees shake, rests his hand on Dean's soft hair and strokes gently, feeling the boy shake and whimper as he sucks him ardently, hands kneading Castiel's thighs and nose snorting soft breaths into the dark hair at his root.

He comes with a thick suddenness, already pushed too far. Dean swallows it all down, pulling away as the last short spurt hits his tongue, licking his lips and nuzzling the spent, over stimulated thing between his legs.

"Oh yes. " He mumbles softly, and Castiel feels the wet pass of his tongue over the head, rolling the skin beneath it. "Fuck yes." The boy growls, throat made raw.

Castiel pets his hair until Dean gathers himself, getting to his feet and wiping the come from himself, firstly with his fist, and then from his palm to the wall of the tunnel beside Castiel's head. As he turns to go, Castiel stops him with a soft touch to his face.

"Come back to my rooms." He murmurs, and the boy looks torn between trying to assert that Castiel's very wrong about him, about what he is and giving into what he wants.

In the end he follows.

His rooms are small and plain, no extra money wasted on gargantuan suites and parlours and lounges. Why bother when he only uses them for this, for liaisons with cruel mouthed boys.

With Dean on it his narrow bed looks ludicrously tiny, the undyed linens softly bundled beneath Castiel's knees as he rocks back and forth, dragging Dean's renewed erection against his insides and feeling heat flare up with every push of the head into him. Dean's hands are on his hips, holding on as Castiel rides him into the mattress, head thrown back and sweat making its way down his throat and chest.

The bed frame squeaks, rattling its feet on the wooden floor, and dust is stirred from the ancient mattress. Neither of them makes much noise, Castiel's regular motion on his hardness lulling Dean into closing his eyes and stretching, thrusting up lazily and humming in the back of his throat as Castiel gasps thickly and starts to move faster, setting off a cacophony of new sounds in the tortured bed.

When Castiel starts moving in earnest, bouncing up and down hard enough to produce a slap of flesh on flesh with each downward jolt, he breaks the silence. Riding the boy, closer and closer, he digs his fingernails into Dean's chest and lets his head fall back, then forward, hair covering his eyes, mouth panting and back tight with the effort of rising and falling on tired thighs.

"Yes...yes...oh god there...the-re...uh...uh-hh...ye-s." His stomach muscles bunch and tense as he moves, knees sinking into the bed and each clench of his rear as he steadies himself bringing him closer to the edge.

He shakes as he comes, dropping down and fully impaling himself as his muscles milk Dean's arousal, not enough to get him off but tortuous all the same. When he goes limp, spent and idly watching his come collecting on Dean's stomach and chest while his thighs shake with exhaustion, Dean rolls him over and thrusts into him, chasing his own release and feeling the older man tense and groan with every strike to the hidden nerve centre in him, so over stimulated and yet still greedy for touch, for the sensation of being filled. It's quick and violent and Dean can feel Castiel's nails dragging over his back and buttocks, leaving shallow scratches and bruised cresents.

When at last they're lying chest to chest on the sweat stained sheets, Dean drags himself into a sitting position and rubs a hand across his face. Castiel takes this as his cue and fumbles a roll of notes from his discarded breeches, handing it over with damp fingers. Dean takes it and gets up, trying to find his own clothes as Castiel lights a cigarette and offers it to him. He takes it and sits on the bed, pulling up his pants one handed and sucking on the smoke greedily.

"Where are your people?" he asks, and the boy tenses immediately.

"They know I'm here." He asserts, even though Castiel knows he has spoken to no one else since their tryst in the tunnel by the club.

"I meant your family...do you have family?"

"My brother. Sam." He says shortly, shrugging on his shirt.

"Older or younger."

Dean's head snaps round.

"He's not for sale."

"I know that...I merely asked..." Castiel lights his own cigarette. "You're doing this for him I take it? Supporting him?"

Dean nods once, lacing his boots.

"What if you didn't have to?" Castiel asks eventually. "What if you could have money for him and..." he tugs the sheet up over his hips. "Well...room to indulge your proclivities."

Dean looks nonplussed but suspicious.

"You mean...come and fuck you? Just you?" He tries to keep the note of interest out of his voice. Castiel is pretty, as most of his clients, usually inbred wealthy sons, are not.

"I mean I'd bring you and your brother to my home, my real home, and let you stay with me." Castiel says gently. "I don't have family...it does get rather lonely there...and I'd take care of you, and your brother."

"You wouldn't..."

"I wouldn't touch him, I swear." Castiel promises, and Dean believes him, he can't believe this man would ever lie. He breathes out a cloud of smoke, watching Dean with open eyes, afraid of rejection, of disgust and revulsion. "I'm not so bad, am I?" He asks in a small voice.

He wonders what it must be like for Castiel, in his large house, for he must live in some ancient family pile, alone and cold with his hidden lusts, his forbidden wants. Indulging them in empty nights with boys like himself, craving more, affection, truth, love.

His own nights sweating in the bed next to Sam, trying not to wake him as he shakes through the aftermath of a dream about hard limbs on his own, willing flesh opening to him and the taste of salt in his mouth. Seem suddenly not so different. They both want, they are both desperate to avoid detection.

He moves up the bed, holding the naked body of the pale, smooth man tenderly. Castiel sighs as Dean nuzzles the dark hair at the base of his neck, sweat damp and curled.

"You're perfect." Dean says, and means it.


	2. Chapter 2

Sam thinks Castiel's house is the biggest house in the world.

He's been in it for three months and he still finds new rooms every time he goes for a walk. The gardens are huge, the hallways so long that he can't see to the end of them and the dining room is massive, a table so long that he would tire from running the length of it.

His and Dean's room is bigger than their house. The bed alone is three times the size of their old pallet, with proper sheets and a silk coverlet. It has four giant posts and curtains that make the bed its own room.

His clothes are different to. Still the plain shirts and dark slacks he used to wear, but now made of better stuff and thick enough to keep out the cold, as if there could be a draft here in this place.

He knows that Castiel has his own room somewhere, and that it must be finer even than the bedroom Sam shares with Dean. There's also the other room, the one he doesn't go into because it's always locked. The one Dean shares with Castiel most nights, before coming back to share the bed he occupies with Sam.

Sam's not stupid, young yes, but not naive. He knows that Dean used to have sex with people for food money, and now he has sex with Castiel and they live in his house. But he likes Castiel, he's not scary anymore like he was when Sam first met him. He's nice and quiet and he doesn't do bad things to Dean like some of the others did. Dean is happy in Castiel's house, and he doesn't refuse to take his clothes off in front of Sam like he used to do when he had bruises or bites on him. He comes to bed smelling like the same soap that Castiel uses, hair still wet from bathing.

Sam likes the library the best, so he spends a lot of time there, reading. Castiel has promised to get him a tutor so that Sam won't have to go away to school and leave Dean.

Sam gets used to eating with Dean and Castiel, watching his brother and the older man talk about the society gossip and whispering other things between them that Sam can't here. After a few weeks they stop trying to pretend that they aren't having sex, they curl up on the couches in the salon and Sam sits on the floor reading and shaking his head when Dean slips a hand under Castiel's shirt, and asks Sam if it bothers him.

Sam thinks Castiel is probably the best thing that's ever happened to his brother.

Dean doesn't think there's a part of Castiel he hasn't touched, licked, sucked or been inside of after the first three months of living with him.

In their locked room, spread out on a generously sized bed and with candles burning low in the wall sconces, he takes Castiel apart and breaks apart himself. He's never had access to this much bared flesh on a man, taking his clients quickly and mostly clothed in alleys. A man has never tasted this good to him, like rose oil and salt and wine instead of beer and week old sweat.

Castiel touches him like he's a person, like he's something holy and beautiful. He is kind and never holds Dean down, calling him a whore or pulling his hair. He's quiet and wondering as if each time Dean pushes inside of him is the first time, as if he can't believe how good it feels just to be with him.

They are by no means chaste lovers. They couple openly on the mussed bed, obscenely bare and moving with muscle binding force, Castiel on hands and knees with Dean jerking into him from behind, Dean on his back with Castiel riding him into the floor, hands braced on the couch above them. Any way to join their needy flesh is tried, hours of slipping over each other naked, like curls of smoke or pools of oil. He watches Castiel come a hundred times, hears him beg and moan and scream even as he loses his mind over him, swears, pleads and professes every scattered endearment he can process.

They fuck like whores let loose on each other, like lovers reuniting, like old marrieds in their dowdy bed and virgins full of nerves and delight. They come together brutally like enemies who want to take and take and friends who would give everything and receive so much in return.

In the face of so much variety, change and excitement, Dean begins to lose his harder edges.

He begins to like Castiel's face, even when it isn't rapt with pleasure or moulded to the curve of his sweating throat, praying wordlessly for _deeper, faster, more._

He likes the smiles he gives when Sam reads some dusty tome from the library.

He likes the frown that creases his forehead as he goes over his accounts.

He loves the sound of his voice when it says 'Dean' even if he's just calling for his company on a walk in the grounds.

He craves the tender skin behind his ears and the insides of his wrists.

Dean begins to move Castiel onto his back on the bed, taking him face to face so that he can watch and be watched. He kisses him and means it, more than just eating at his mouth in desperation, but softer, more refined.

He lies with him on Castiel's actual bed, in his bedroom, and they talk about their parents (dead) their siblings (Sam and Gabriel) and their proclivities (troubling and shrouded in secrecy).

One night, sweating and lying with his softening cock against his belly, soaked in oil and Castiel's cooling come, he brushes the hair from his employers face and realises he has acquired a lover, a partner.

Castiel holds on to him and breaths softly against his skin.

They love and are loved. Dean slips his fingers through Castiel's and tethers them together.


End file.
